Touch
by Oxymoronic Alliteration
Summary: After an explosion separates him from the team, Gibbs has only his hands to guide him out.


He remembers the ground shaking beneath him, accompanied by a piercing "boom" that seemed to swallow him whole. It is then that he realizes that the place has been booby-trapped, that he's been sent here with the hope that he and the team will be blown to smithereens before they can find any incriminating evidence. Luckily for his team, he sent them out to the truck to grab their gear while he investigated ahead. Maybe it was his gut; maybe it was just dumb luck. But he knows they're safe, and that helps him keep his head.

Smoke is billowing around him and his ears are ringing, a result of the explosion's deafening blast. He's sure the team has heard the sound and are calling for him to tell them what's happened, but he can't hear anything in his earwig. He can't hear anything at all. His eyes water as he squints into the haze of smoke, unable to see anything. His nose, mouth, and throat are filled with smoke. There's only one thing he can use to get out of this inferno.

He pulls his shirt up over his nose to block out as much smoke as possible and then falls to his knees. He can barely remember where he is in the warehouse. He remembers taking a maze of hallways to get there. Will he remember them well enough to navigate in this condition?

He crawls on all fours, keeping one hand out. When it hits the door, he pushes it open and peeks out. It's difficult to tell which way the smoke is coming from, but he remembers that he made a right into that room. _Looks like I'm going left_, he thinks as he pushes through the door.

Time is of the essence in this situation. He can't even begin to know how long it may take the fire fighters to get there; they aren't exactly in the most urban area of Virginia. But he knows it's better to keep a cool head and think his actions through than to risk the chance of taking a wrong turn. As he inches down the hallway, he keeps one hand on the wall, making sure he doesn't miss a turn.

If only he could see where he's going.

If only he could hear his team's calls and could get directions from them.

If only he could smell from which direction the fresh outside air was coming.

But he can't do those things. He has to rely on his hands and fingers to guide him.

He reaches a corner and makes another left. He knows there's a door this way. It should be about ten feet away from the corner.

One foot.

Two feet.

Three feet.

Four, five, six.

Seven, eight, nine.

Ten.

He reaches to the side and feels a knob. A sigh of relief. He remembers the fire safety tips they'd drilled into him and his classmates in grade school, so he runs the back of his hand along the door to feel for heat.

And is it ever hot! The surface of the door feels like the surface of a skillet and he jerks his hand back in surprise and pain. He looks down and sees more smoke billowing out, rather than being sucked in. This door isn't going to be his escape today. He has to find another way.

This time he goes to the right instead of the left. The seconds are ticking by and he knows he has only precious few moments until he succumbs to smoke inhalation; after that, he's a goner.

His fingernails begin scraping against the concrete floor with every inch forward. It's becoming more difficult to breathe, more difficult to think. He has to stop…but only for a second (at least, that's what he tells himself), falling onto his stomach and pressing himself into the ground. The concrete has absorbed some of the cold prior to the blast, making it a short, cool relief from the heat and smoke.

And then his head lifts with every ounce of energy he has. The fingers of his outstretched hands slowly wiggle, trying to grasp that intangible gush of air he just felt. It's there, he knows it's there. His exit is so close.

He pulls forward again and feels another breeze as it wafts against his skin. _Go toward the air_, he tells himself. Little by little, he will get there. He's never been one to give up.

And there it is; the veritable light at the end of the tunnel, or, in this case, at the end of the smoke-filled hallway. His hand hits the door and he can feel the cold compressed within the metal work of the door. He pushes it, reveling in the rush of air that swoops in. He can't quite stand, but he does pull himself out and rolls onto the grassy patch nearby. Time to rest.

His team rushes to him and he can see their faces float into his line of vision. They all are concerned and seem to be speaking. He can't hear them, but he's a good enough lip-reader to get the gist of their words.

_Boss?_

_Gibbs, are you okay?_

_Quick! We need medic over here!_

He let's them bustle about him, getting him the proper oxygen and checking him for burns and other wounds.

And he lies there, letting his hands running over the soft blades of the grass, appreciating their gentle touch against his skin.

* * *

**AN:** This was my third entry for the Last Fic Writer Standing Competition. Thanks for reading!


End file.
